


Made Perfect

by WandererRiha



Category: Tron - Fandom, tron legacy - Fandom
Genre: F/M, First Guardian, Gen, clu means well, digital ninja, tron lives, yori lives
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-12-29
Updated: 2013-12-28
Packaged: 2018-01-06 13:46:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,290
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1107579
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WandererRiha/pseuds/WandererRiha
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clu's mission was to create a perfect world. Perfection, however, is never easy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Imperfect Situation

“This is not a perfect situation.” The voice was mangled, muted, the words distorted and lopsided. “I have my function and you have yours. Sadly, they are incompatible.”

Static fizzed and flickered before his eyes, eventually tracking to a flat, grainy image of a familiar face.

“Flynn?” Tron croaked, his voice thin and low-res in his own ears. Or perhaps ear. Audio input had gone mono, everything coming from his right side.

“Hardly,” said Flynn’s face. “Therein lies the problem.”

“I fight for the User.” His words were stronger this time, in both conviction and volume. Clu’s smile was rueful, his words gentle.

“I know, my friend, I know.”

Tron felt a hand brush over his hair. “You can’t help it. It’s what you were made for. I can’t ask you to go against your programming. Fortunately, I don’t have to.”

“Flynn...”

“Is gone.”

“But...”

“Your Users _left_ you. They went back through the portal and left you- all of you- in my care. I’m in charge now, Tron. Flynn told me to create a perfect system, and that’s exactly what I’m going to do.”

“Alan?” the word echoed hollow and desperate.

“He can’t hear you. He abandoned you, but it’s all right. I’m going to fix things, and I’m going to start with you.”

It wasn’t until the touch to his face that he realized something was wrong. Terribly wrong. What had started as a cold, abstract numbness exploded into agony. A sharp burning sensation stabbed into his left ear, lanced across his face, and gouged into his eye socket. Wounds always felt deeper than they really were, but he felt sure he must have been cut clean down to superstructure. Before he could bite it back, the scream escaped his throat.

“It hurts, doesn’t it,” Clu told him, voice distant and fuzzy through the pain and static of his own howls. “Perfection isn’t easy.”

Images flickered across his mind’s eye, only to darken and vanish. Clu threatening Alan and Flynn, himself raising a hand to stop him. Clu’s minions ambushing them, Clu standing over him with his own data disk raised above his head and then-- Darkness.

“You fought for the User, but there is no User anymore, only me. From now on, you fight for me...Rinzler.”

“Rinzler...?” he repeated.

“Rinzler,” Clu affirmed.

“I...fight for...”

“Your leader, your savior. When your User is absent, you fight for me.”

“...for you?”

“Yes, Rinzler. You will fight for me.”

“I will fight for you,” Rinzler repeated mechanically.

“Very good,” Clue leaned back, smiling.

“Yori...” The word escaped on its own.

Clu tilted his head to one side. “Who is Yori?”

“Yori? She... She is...” Rinzler rubbed at his head, trying to remember.

“Gone,” Clu supplied. “Gone like the Users. You’re a warrior. A warrior has no room in his heart for love.”

“No room.”

“None. You fight for me, for perfection. Together, we’ll protect the Grid and make it perfect.”

“Perfect?” he echoed.

“Yes, Rinzler, perfect. I have made you perfect; the perfect warrior. Together, none will stand in our way.”


	2. Retcon

Clu said nothing, only held his hand against Tron’s ruined face a moment longer as the circuitry pulled itself back together. It would leave a scar, but at least he’d be able to see out of two eyes again. He’d done this, after all, it was only right that he repair the damage.

The coup had been necessary, and while the fight with Tron had not been unexpected, he hadn’t thought it would end so badly. Attacking Tron himself had been pure, unplanned reflex. Tron’s howl of pain had jerked him back to reality, the red fading from his vision and a cold sense of dread collecting like mountain mist in the pit of his stomach.

He hadn’t meant to hurt him. Not like that. Tron was necessary for keeping the Grid in order. He was a comrade if not exactly a friend. Something like panic gripped his heart, only relaxing its hold as Tron- out cold- drew a shallow breath. Clu exhaled deeply, the rush of fear and adrenaline escaping with the carbon dioxide.

“You’ll be all right,” Clu promised, carefully replacing replacing Tron’s data disk and letting him settle on his back. The clatter of boots against pavement alerted him of the guards’ return.

“Sir...I’m afraid we lost him.” There was trepidation in the program’s voice, but there needn’t have been. He had, after all, all the time in the world. Clu nodded and stood, carefully easing Tron’s head to the ground as he did so.

“That’s all right, he won’t get far. Set up a perimeter to watch for him, then send the troops into the city. It’s more important to get things in order here first.”

“And the traitor?” the guard asked, training his weapon on Tron’s shattered face.

“No, no,” Clu stepped forward and gently pushed the barrel down to point at the floor. “No, he’s not a traitor,” he said kindly. “He was simply playing for the wrong team. There’s no need to derez him.”

“Sir,” the guard responded, sounding more than a little confused.

“Take him up to the medical bay and see he’s well cared for. We’re going to need him later on.”

“Yes, sir.”

He watched as four guards improvised a stretcher of their hands and arms- one took his shoulders, another his legs, two more held up either side of his body- and bore away the last hero of the Grid. After a moment Clu followed them. He still had one more thing to do.

 

* * *

Yori, as anticipated, was not happy to see him.

“Clu,” she demanded sharply, “what’s going on? I registered an altercation in the courtyard and something’s happened to communications. I can’t contact Tron.”

“Who?” Clu asked, taking hold of her forearm. She wrenched away.

“Stop it, Clu. I know you know what happened. What aren’t you telling me?”

He watched her as she shouted, traced each syllable on her lips. It was true what they said about women being beautiful when they were angry.

“You’re so beautiful,” he mused aloud, reaching to smooth back a stray strand of hair. Not for the first time he felt a coil of envy twist in his stomach. Still, Tron and Yori were- had been- perfect for each other, a complimentary pair. However, if he let them stay together, they’d only cause more trouble and he didn’t want to hurt either of them even more.

“ _Clu._ ” Now she was really angry. But, he realized, that was only to mask her fear. Fear of him, or fear for Tron, he wasn’t sure.

“Yori...” he took her hands, the regret in his voice holding her captive far better than any physical restraint. He squeezed her fingers tightly, feeling heat and energy radiate from his own.

“He’s gone,” Clu told her honestly.

“What?” She squinted, searching his face in vain for a hidden meaning, a way to blot out what he might say. Orange had already crept as high as her elbows. “No. No, he can’t be gone.”

Blue-white light burned brightly up and down her uniform and Clue clenched her hands more tightly. She cried out at this. Relaxing his grip, he slid his hands up her arms to circle her biceps.

“He’s gone,” he repeated softly. “There is no Tron.”

Orange flooded her boots, her leggings, her coat and dress, but the necklace-like insignia across her collarbones burned stubbornly blue. Tears welled up and spilled over as he pulled her close and put his arms around her.

“I’m sorry, Yori,” he husked, meaning every syllable. “So sorry.”

“No,” she whispered, begging for a lie. All he had to give her was the truth.

“Yes.”

Leaning in, he kissed her lips. Although the thought had crossed his mind- taking Yori for himself, raising their daughter as his own- he’d shoved it aside. A perfect system was not one in which he stole another man’s family. There was no need to rob her of all her happiness. He wouldn’t steal that. But there was no reason he could not try to earn her love for himself. There was no passion in the kiss, no romance to flood it with heat and desire. It was cold and comfortless, a widow’s kiss; a second-hand goodbye from a husband who was no longer present to deliver it himself.

He held her a moment after they’d broken apart. Eyes dazed and swimming in tears, she just stared at him, unsure what had just happened. The collar of her dress gleamed a warm amber against the white fabric.

“Tron...?”

“He’s gone, Yori. I’m sorry.”

Collapsing against him, she broke down and wept. Regret weighted his gut as he stroked her hair, trying to be soothing. Surely a heart-broken Yori had no place in his perfect system?

“Tron’s gone,” he murmured into her ear, “but you’ve always had a thing for Rinzler.”


	3. Reset

It clicked. Flynn. He’d been trying to save Flynn. He _hadn’t_ abandoned them. In his heart, he had never truly believe that. He drifted, slowly sinking as the memories began to sort themselves out. The light flickered, warm red-orange fading to be replaced with clear blue-white. He was Tron again. Tron. Yori. Gem. Oh User.

Turning in the water, he clawed for the surface. Pain tugged at the left side of his face, but he ignored it. The Sea of Simulation was wide and he had no idea how far he’d have to swim. Finding his glider rod seemed like too much to hope for.

_Alan... Flynn..._ he thought, _Help me..._

As if in answer, the earth and sky shook, a massive shockwave of light and power throwing him against one of the many rocky spires. Turning, he clung to it until the wall of energy had passed. When he finally dared to look, a glowing shape caught his gaze. Clu’s glider rod lay lodged in a crevice in the stones.

“Thank you,” he told the sky.

Climbing up, he fished the rod from between the rocks. He had to grapple halfway up the formation before he was high enough. Praying the rod was still energized enough to function, he closed his eyes and jumped.

* * *

The shockwave had hit the city already. Instead of Clu’s gold and orange the lights shone white and clear blue. Good thing, too. The glider was almost out of power and so was he. Flying with monocular visuals had proved difficult and Tron wasn’t sure he really wanted to try to land in such close quarters. The decision was made for him as the wireframe began to flicker and a wave of dizziness washed over him. He fell into the descent, the glider blinking out a few clicks from the ground. It wasn’t a high fall, but the momentum carried him forward. Tucking into a ball, he felt his feet and then his shoulder connect with the street, sending him tumbling until he rolled to a stop. Traffic, it seemed, had come to a stand still. There was no screech of brakes, no horns or bells scolding him to get out of the way. For a moment he simply laid there, feeling the pain radiate down from his head to the rest of his body.

“Rinzler?” someone asked, approaching him cautiously.

“It’s Rinzler!” The phrase rippled back through the crowd like rings in a data stream. The helmet felt stuffy and hot, filled as it was with his pained breaths. Undoing the catch, he stiffly sat up and pulled it off. A communal gasp went up. No one had ever seen Rinzler’s face, but one or two programs might remember Tron’s, disfigured though it might be.

“My name is Tron,” he told the crowd, getting to his feet. The world swam for a moment and he let the helmet clatter to the street. “I fight for the User.”

“The User?” echoed one of the onlookers. “What about Clu?”

“Clu was reintegrated,” he held out his arms to show off the blue-white light running up and down his uniform. “Flynn took him back. He gave himself to save us. Flynn saved us. A _User_ saved us.” The ground pitched and he staggered where he stood.

“You are free.”

Cheers exploded around him, several programs surged forward and he collapsed into their arms.

“Gem... Yori...” he murmured. “Where are they?”

He heard the question echo back, passing like a wave through the crowd. Many arms held him up, keeping him on his feet.

“Central Tower,” the cry went up. Tron lifted his head to see the spire of Central Tower piercing the atmosphere. His vision swam.

“Can you walk?” someone asked.

“I think so,” he answered, not at all convinced he could. Hoping it was true, he took a step but his knee buckled beneath him. The ground pitched and he fell, hands reaching out to catch him.

“Tron.”

The word was a title, a benediction, more than just a name. The hands lifted him and he felt himself being carried on the crowd’s shoulders. On either side, a hand held his. The spire blurred, solidified, and blurred again as he drifted toward it, born on the wave of hands that carried him.

“ _Tron!_ ” The shout was sharp and shrill, jerking him from the blessed oblivion of unconsciousness and back into the waking world. Opening his eye, he saw her. It had been ages. They both were older, but he would have recognized her regardless.

“Yori!” He fell, quite literally, into her arms. A cheer went up, barely noticed, as he kissed her.

“I missed you,” she murmured into his shoulder once they’d broken apart.

“Where’s Gem?” he asked.

Her face fell. “I don’t know. When Clu...” She paused and her eyes flicked down to study the pavement. Aware now that her own memories had been tampered with, she could only guess how much he knew. Looking up, she eyed the crowd briefly before meeting his gaze again; a look that said ‘Not in front of all these people.’

Tron nodded, he could wait. Taking his hands, she squeezed them and gave him a sad smile. He returned it, but the focus in his remaining eye was fading. Reaching, she caught him as he fell.

“Yori...” he murmured, trying to muster the strength and the memory to stand on his own.

“Shh...” she whispered, petting his hair. “You’re home.”

The lights dimmed and he knew no more.


	4. Father

After carrying it around for over twenty years, Alan Bradley felt naked without Flynn’s old pager. According to Sam, there was no longer any need for it. He’d thought about getting rid of it; disconnecting the battery and turning it in to the nearest Radio Shack to be recycled. No one besides hospitals used pagers anymore. Alan had kept up with the times in every other area- though it had taken the combined efforts of Lora and himself to figure out a few of the apps on his iPhone- but the old pager had been part of him, part of Flynn, a last stubborn hope that somehow, some way, his friend would come back. Now, he never would.

Maybe he wasn’t ready to part with the old technology, maybe he wasn’t ready to part with the memory of his friend. He’d held on to both for two decades. Rather than throw it out, he took it off and set it on the bedside table as he always had. In the morning, it took deliberate effort not to clip it to his belt. For the rest of the day, Alan felt as if he’d forgotten something.

“Alan?” Lora came out of the bedroom, one hand fluffing out her damp hair, the other holding up a small black bit of plastic. “Your pager’s going off.”

Alan blinked, set down the computer magazine he’d been reading and went over to inspect the buzzing object for himself.

“Maybe the battery’s-- “ the words died on his tongue as he looked at the phone number. Flynn’s Arcade. The same number that had sent Sam to his adventure on the Grid. “It must be malfunctioning,” he reasoned, brows creased, groping for an explanation. “Bad battery or something. This is the same number as the last page I got.”

Lora also wore a look of puzzled consternation. “I thought Flynn died on the Grid? Is it possible he survived?”

Alan shook his head. “I don’t know, Lora. I doubt it. Even if he had...”

“Do you think he wants out?”

“Anything’s possible,” he shrugged. Lora nodded. They both knew it was all too true.

“Maybe you should call Sam?”

“Probably. Definitely. Actually, no.”

Lora cocked her head at him, lost.

“I’ll talk to him myself. This is family business. Not the sort of thing you do over the phone.”

* * *

It had been a long time since he’d needed to journey to communication center. During the Golden Age- as he’d come to think of it- when Flynn would come and visit, he was either able to ask directly or pass questions and information on to Alan via his fellow User. Flynn had been a great friend, but he wasn’t _his_ User. That sort of reverence, of familiarity, would forever be reserved for Alan alone. He hadn’t heard from Alan for a long time, not since moving from ENCOM to the Grid. Truth be told, he’d sorely missed him.

“You’re sure you don’t want me to come?” Yori asked him, trying hard not to look hurt. He gave her what he hoped was a reassuring smile.

“It’s not that I don’t want you to come. One of us needs to stay here to help with the restoration efforts. I just need to communicate with my User. That’s all.”

“And you can’t tell me what’s bothering you until you do that?”

He shook his head. “No. I’m sorry, but...” He sighed, the sound thick and heavy. “This is something I need to do. I’ll tell you, I will,” his throat caught, “but I want to speak with him first. I need to get things straight in my head.”

She nodded, consenting. “I understand.” Leaning forward, she kissed his lips. “Be safe. Hurry back.”

He kissed her in return, holding it a moment longer. “I will.”

 

It was unsurprising but still painful to discover Dumont’s old seat vacant. The building was largely empty aside from a few other older programs who had somehow come out the other side of Clu’s reign of terror more or less in one piece. He thought he recognized a few faces and greeted them with a nod. They responded in kind, adding a respectful smile. Not many programs had dared to come here in the last several cycles. Strangely, it had suffered surprisingly little vandalism, though it had a dusty and unused air about it.

Stepping up onto the platform, he reached and lifted his data disks from his back. Few programs were old enough to carry two disks. Yori and a handful of others of his generation had achieved that unique status. Holding the linked disks above his head, he flexed his fingers, allowing the disk to hover in mid-air, high out of reach.

* * *

 

“Alan?” Sam turned to look back over his shoulder. Alan stood off to one side, Quorra and Lora further back out of the line of fire of the digitizer. “I think it’s for you.”

“Me?” Lowering himself into the seat as Sam got out of it, Alan scooted a bit closer to the console and peered at the screen. Spreading his fingers across the keyboard he typed:

 

Alan blinked, not sure what to think.

“What is it?” Lora asked.

“It’s Tron,” Alan responded vaguely, most of his brain occupied with why Tron would send out such a request?

 

A reply came up almost instantly: 

Communication? Alan frowned slightly, remembering Tron’s last mad dash and desperate errand that had driven him to seek help from the outside world of Users.

 

* * *

 

Tron had hoped rather than expected that his own user would deign to descend and speak with him face to face. He still wasn’t entirely sure what he would do, how he would act, if ever he came in direct contact with him. Clu had been a mirror image of Flynn. He knew that Alan’s face looked just like his own, but it was still hard to picture. It was therefore a shock for both of them when a second body materialized on the dais.

“...Alan?” Tron asked, unsure if he ought to bow or simply shake hands or what. Giving himself a mental slap, he instead took a half-step back and saluted. He was a soldier. That was how a soldier greeted his commanding officer. “Sir.”

The greeting brought Alan’s gaze to the front with a snap. He had heard Flynn and then Sam go on about their adventures on the Grid, about being digitized, and while he had dreamed about it, had never actually thought it would happen. And now it had. Dear God almighty he was _inside_ the computer! He nodded somewhat blankly at Tron’s salute. It was surreal, staring back into a face he had not seen for over twenty years. Had he ever had that much hair? The face, though smoother, had sustained damage not caused by the passage of time.

“What happened?” he asked, reaching a out a hand to touch the burnt edges of wiring and silicon but pulling back as Tron shied away.

“Clu,” he answered. Alan waited as Tron opened his mouth, closed it, and then tried again. “I need to talk to you. _Really_ talk to you.”

“I’m here.”

“I know.” Tron’s smile was almost painfully grateful. “Thank you for coming. I...” he raked fingers through his thick hair. “I failed. I was supposed to protect the Grid, to protect Flynn, and I failed.”

Alan nodded. “Sam told us what happened.”

“I wish he’d told me,” Tron said and it was as close to complaining as Alan had ever heard him come. “Yori filled me in on some things but...” He trailed off, shaking his head and letting his arms drop in a defeated sigh. “My memories are patchy at best. Clu was controlling me for a long time. I don’t have a clear recollection of what I did.” But he had an idea, and not a good one, if the look on his face was any indication.

“Why don’t we sit down?” Alan suggested, resting a hand on his arm and guiding him off the low platform. It was the sort of thing he did with his girls, with his children. Seeing him in the flesh- silicon?- this creature that he’d made, that bore the face of his thirty-year-old self, Alan couldn’t help the sudden tide of parental fondness. Years ago Lora had kidded him about the Tron program being his baby. Neither of them had expected the tease to become so literal. The instinct to keep his hand on Tron’s arm was natural, and Tron seemed grateful for it. All children, even grown children, needed reassurance now and then.

Seated on one of the long, low benches that lined the wall, Tron leaned his elbows on his thighs, his hands dangling between his knees. From this side, his expression was impossible to read, the deep gouge in his face leaving a black line where his eye and ear had once been.

“Did Flynn ever tell you I had a family?” he asked at length. Alan blinked.

“No. No, he didn’t.”

Tron nodded. “I did. Yori and I, we had a daughter. She looked like her mother.”

“That’s wonderful,” Alan told him, trying to strike a balance between congratulatory and cautious. The use of past-tense did not bode well.

“I haven’t seen her since she was a little thing,” he went on. “She was very young when Clu took over. She must be a grown woman by now.”

Alan did not know what to say to that.

“I had no contact with her or Yori while I was Rinzler. I remember... I remember Clu saying that the perfect warrior had no room in his life for love, for family. I was to serve him in the absence of the Users. You know it’s funny,” he turned to look at his own User, his remaining eye and a rather twisted half-smile coming into view. “I recognized Sam for what he was when I drew blood. Blood...” Lowering his gaze, he contemplated the floor. “We don’t bleed. Not red, anyway. There was _no way_ I was going to fight a User. I think it was right around then that I started to remember. Just bits and pieces, but it was a start. The start of a lot of things.

“Clu knew I’d never lay a hand on a User, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t order me to assassinate someone else. If the User got caught in the crossfire, so much the better.”

Alan said nothing, afraid to speak, afraid to hear him go on.

“He brought along me and my troops to kill Castor- used to call himself Zuse. I didn’t know who he was and I didn’t care, but I remember there was a woman with him. A young woman with fair hair and eyes. For some reason...I thought she looked familiar.”

There was a long and uncomfortable silence. Finding no words, Alan instead slid his hand up to Tron’s shoulder, gently running his thumb back and forth over the fabric of his uniform.

“I know now why I thought that,” he said at last. “She looked like Yori. I saw my daughter.” He swallowed hard, his next words rough and ragged. “I saw my daughter and not ten nanos later, I killed her.”


End file.
